


heaven knows (i'm miserable now)

by PersephonesReign



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, M/M, Mentions of rough sex, Pining, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 09:33:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19391362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersephonesReign/pseuds/PersephonesReign
Summary: Crowley finds himself wondering what it would be like to touch the angel, and to be touched in return. He wonders if it would wipe away the bruised and broken feeling.The times that Crowley does feel Aziraphale against him it is through the haze of alcohol and mostly initiated by the demon himself. Intoxication becomes an excuse to sit too close, to let their knees and shoulders brush, to stumble and catch himself against the angel. He craves even the briefest moments of contact. Crowley feels each one like a bolt of lightning, the electricity humming through his nerves until he can taste ozone on his tongue.





	heaven knows (i'm miserable now)

**Author's Note:**

> Look. Listen. Look and listen. I wrote some angst. This is not a happy story. There is not a happy ending. I hope you like it anyway?
> 
> I was, like, going through a thing so writing this was surprisingly helpful. 
> 
> The title is taken from the Smiths song of the same name. 
> 
> "I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour  
> But heaven knows I'm miserable now"

The very first thing Crowley can recall is pain. _Severe_. _Violent_. _Excruciating_. Excruciating, from the Latin cruciāre: to torture, or more literally, to crucify. A strange word for a demon to throw around, certainly, but it should come as no surprise. After all, Crowley has seen the term in action. It had not been part of the lexicon when Crowley had first been sentenced to _his_ torment, but he knows intimately the feeling and what it means. It means that he has been forsaken.

In the beginning, Crowley is aware of nothing at all. The sensation of pain touches every part of him, corporeal and ethereal, running through him so completely that for a moment his senses perceive it as natural, as stasis. But then, as if a switch is flipped, he becomes conscious of the overwhelming fact that _something is not right_. He hears shrieking, wailing, the sound shrill and awful. It dawns on him suddenly that the hideous sound is being ripped from his own throat _and he can't stop it._ And then the _feeling_ begins in earnest. All-consuming, originating from his very core. He feels as if his entire being might turn in on itself, falling toward the source, a collapsing star, the pain crushing the atoms that comprise him.

After what seems to be an eternity of writhing in agony, the pain subsides to a bearable level, leaving behind the ache of taut muscles and frayed nerves. He opens bleary, bloodshot eyes only to be assailed by merciless brightness. He is lying face down on a tile floor that had perhaps been white at some point but is now coated in a thick, reddish-brown film. _Dirt_ , he hopes, _just_ _dirt_. He tries to push himself up, but the sudden action causes another spike of pain and a wave of nausea overtakes him. Crowley retches. 

Finally, the room ceases to spin, and Crowley is able to roll himself onto his back. Bare fluorescent tube lights flicker, casting the room in a grim, artificial haze. Over him looms a... creature, humanoid in shape but with wrinkled skin a sickly shade of grey-green. Some of the skin is sloughing off in patches of varying size, leaving gaping, wet wounds in its place. As his eyes adjust to the lighting he can make out a distinct wriggling in the wounds. _Maggots._ He feels his stomach lurch again. The thing has one completely black eye, while the other spot on its face is just a vacant hole, weeping a viscous, yellow fluid down onto its cheek. Its lips have mostly fallen away, leaving behind stringy bits of flesh that cling to sharp, stained teeth, only half of which are present. The creature bends down and grips Crowley by the wrist, yanking him to his feet with surprising strength. Crowley’s knees buckle underneath him, but the creature’s unrelenting grip keeps him upright. Crowley can tell that the creature is speaking, but he is unable to wrap his mind around the words. He tries to make a sound, but all his raw throat can produce is an unseemly mix between a croak and a groan. As the fog lifts, Crowley is able to make out the word _fallen_. 

_No, no, no, no, no,_ his mind chants like a mantra. But in his heart, he knows it to be true.

After the fall, Crowley’s senses are never the same. The pain, inside and out, is ever-present, dwarfing his awareness of other sensation. Every touch is like the final cry of an echo, a mere shadow of what came before. Light is dimmer, the world a painting done in a muted palette. Sounds seem duller, flat, as if everything he hears is slightly out of tune. Food tastes like ash in his mouth. Naturally, he gravitates toward rougher, harsher things. He likes the bitter burn of alcohol, the electric cacophony of loud music, the dizzying feeling of driving at ferocious speeds, watching the world fly by around him. He craves anything that can work its way through the pain to reach him for even a moment. He craves things that can make him forget. 

He gravitates toward Aziraphale, caught up in his orbit. Aziraphale’s essence permeates his senses, making the world around him brighter, gentler, more melodic. The pain is less unbearable, less confounding, when he is with the angel. And yet, in the end, it is always worse. When he leaves the malaise returns, full tilt. Still, Crowley is hooked. It is as if Aziraphale’s presence, the angelic light he radiates on a level imperceptible to others, is a soothing balm for Crowley’s burnt and wounded being. He finds himself wondering what it would be like to touch the angel, and to be touched in return. He wonders if it would wipe away the bruised and broken feeling. If it would fill the cracks in his soul. 

Crowley has taken many lovers in the course of his unimaginably long life, though perhaps lover is the wrong word to use. There is nothing loving about the encounters Crowley seeks. Rough hands grip and pinch and tear, leaving bruises and scratch marks on his hips and back that he allows to linger for days. Violent mouths smash against his own, more of an assault than a kiss. Teeth bite and rip at the skin on his lips, neck, shoulders, thighs. He asks them to bite 'til they break his skin. It does not take much convincing. He has gone to dark, underground clubs where he is strung from the ceiling, bound by his wrists, and beaten with canes, paddles, and whips until he is bloody. He is taken from behind, pounded into, with callous fingers clenching his hair to wrench his head this way and that. He recalls occasions where he has let men fuck into him brutally in the shadows of dank alleys behind seedy bars, fully clothed except for jeans shoved down to expose his ass. His face is pressed into the wall, rough brick scratching his cheek. He lets them spit cruel words at him, call him names. _Slut._ _Whore._ _Bitch._ _Fag._ They tell him that he is only good for taking cock. Crowley does not voice any disagreement.

He does not think of his angel in these less-than-savory moments. He can't. Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut behind his sunglasses and focuses on the brutish sensations that seep into him. When he thinks of Aziraphale he allows himself to fantasize about gentle caresses that would alight his skin with forgotten warmth, sweet kisses that would cause his heart to swell, a soft body covering his own, filling his senses. He imagines making love, _feeling loved_ , basking in the angel's light. There are times when he does not think he could suffer the tenderness, that it would cause him to fall apart at the seams. Crowley has spent years, centuries at a time, avoiding Aziraphale, but like an addict, he finds his way back for his next fix.

Crowley and Aziraphale rarely touch. Even at a time when it is commonplace to greet a friend with a kiss on the cheek, a hug, a warm handshake, Aziraphale has preferred to keep their alliance clandestine. He often pretends not to know the other or at least refuses to give any indication that the two are friends. There are a few occasions, though, where the affection in Aziraphale's eyes upon seeing Crowley might betray him and he raises a hand in greeting, reaching out to touch the demon before abruptly stopping himself. In these moments, Crowley can feel his body betray him, trembling with anticipation. _Please, please, angel-- oh for fuck's sake, touch me, I need it. I can't take it if you don't. I don't know if I would survive if you did. I can't live like this anymore._ The times that Crowley does feel Aziraphale against him it is through the haze of alcohol and mostly initiated by the demon himself. Intoxication becomes an excuse to sit too close, to let their knees and shoulders brush, to stumble and catch himself against the angel. He craves even the briefest moments of contact. Crowley feels each one like a bolt of lightning, the electricity humming through his nerves until he can taste ozone on his tongue.

Crowley thinks things might change now that the Apocalypse has been averted, now that Heaven and Hell are off their backs. They’re on their own side now, and surely, surely, after all this time, something will give. Both sides know that they have been _fraternizing_ for millennia now and yet, together, they escape consequence. Crowley no longer fears his demise at the hands of Hell and Aziraphale must feel free from Heaven’s domineering influence. Finally, they are on their own side, even if Aziraphale seems hesitant to acknowledge it. They can be _together_ , the way Crowley has always desired. 

Crowley waits, allows them both to readjust to their life on Earth. He doesn’t want Aziraphale to think he is making this decision in the heat of the moment. He _needs_ Aziraphale to know what it means to him. A few weeks later, they are drinking in the back of the bookshop. Crowley feels safe, comfortable there with his angel. His inhibitions are lowered after enough glasses of wine to make his insides feel a hint of warmth. They sit on the couch together, side by side. Every once in a while, Crowley allows his hand to brush against Aziraphale’s leg, relishing in the electric hum. His sunglasses sit, discarded, on the coffee table. Crowley is lost in thought, calculating his next move. He wants to bear his broken soul, to tell Aziraphale all the thoughts he has kept jealously guarded for so long. _Angel. Aziraphale. I need you to know that you mean the world to me. I long for you. Everything I am, everything decent about me, it’s because of you._

He looks over at his companion and when they make eye contact his breath catches. He finds himself leaning forward, drawn by some unseen force, and the next thing Crowley knows he is kissing Aziraphale. For one brief moment, everything is _perfect_. He feels no pain, only the soft press of lips against his own, filling him with heat. For the first time since he fell, he feels _whole_. But then, just as suddenly as it started, it is over. Aziraphale reels back, his jaw slack, rapidly blinking those gorgeous powder-blue eyes. He looks _stunned_. “Crowley...” he breathes, and at that moment, Crowley knows he has made a terrible mistake.

“I’m sorry. I am so sorry,” Crowley whispers. The pain has returned, filling him to the brim. His stomach bottoms out. The room spins. He feels sick.

“It’s...it’s alright,” Aziraphale says and tries to take Crowley’s hand, but the demon snatches it back as if the touch burns him.

_No, no, no, no, no. It isn’t supposed to be like this, it can’t be like this._

“It isn’t that I don’t care about you, my dear. I do,” Aziraphale tries to assuage the sting of rejection. “But, it’s just – Crowley, I can't, don't...” He doesn’t finish. Crowley hears the unspoken words anyway. 

“It’s okay, Aziraphale,” Crowley says, plucking his sunglasses up off the coffee table and slipping them back on. His serpentine eyes have started to brim with tears he cannot allow Aziraphale to see. “I’m just...ahem...just drunk.” He finishes, lamely. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Are you sure you don’t wish to...to talk about it?”

“Yeah, no, it’s fine. I should go,” He jumps to his feet and starts for the door. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. The demon freezes in his tracks. For a moment his heart soars, filled with hope. He turns around slowly to see that Aziraphale is also on his feet. “I hope – that is, I want – us to continue to spend time together. I cannot imagine a world where we aren’t friends, dear boy.” 

Crowley flinches at the endearment. He wants to tell Aziraphale that he feels like his heart is shattering, that he has fallen all over again. Excruciating. Forsaken. _I love you, I love you with whatever heart and soul I have left, you stupid, beautiful, perfect being of light. I need you in my life in whatever way you’ll take me. I cannot bear to live without you. I will die without you._

Instead, he simply says, “Right, ‘course.”

Crowley turns his back and is out the door before he can hear if Aziraphale responds. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just going to apologize now. Sorry! I hurt my own feelings writing it. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are the best, even if it's just to yell at me about how sad this is ;)
> 
> I'm on tumblr at persephonesxreign if anyone wants to talk about this angsty shit or anything else.


End file.
